


Any Old Music Will Do

by Noragami



Category: Kaze to Ki no Uta | Song of Wind and Trees
Genre: 1930s, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Cabaret, Cabarets, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3690003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noragami/pseuds/Noragami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Serge and his best friends Pascal and Karl decided to come to check out Germany before their exchange school college program began, and end up getting a little distracted by all the sights and sounds along the way. Well, Serge does, at least; in the process of attending one of the many cabaret clubs around town, he encounters a beautiful boy dancer that may prove to change his life forever, whether for better or for worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Willkommen, Bienvenue

**Author's Note:**

> Heeey so this is not a fandom I'm particularly "in" I guess,  
> but I wrote this thing a little while back and never finished it,  
> so I thought it might be nice to stick it on here and try to do that.  
> This story moves super fast as I originally wrote it on a forum, so  
> chapters on there will be condensed down into longer chapters for here.  
> All characters in this story are of legal age, but there will be mentions of  
> past abuse. Comments and criticisms are very much welcome!  
> Also, a few names will be altered just a bit to better fit the setting,  
> such as Auguste to August. Small things, pfft.  
> Additionally, most if not all chapter titles will be taken from lyrics  
> from the actual Cabaret musical, save for the work title which is taken from  
> "Private Dancer" by Tina Turner.

 

* * *

 

> _The year was 1929 when I first met you._
> 
> _We were younger, then, I just a college boy and you just shy of nineteen._  
>  _We didn't know anything, either of us, and that was just the way we liked it._
> 
> _I will not deny that I miss you, Gilbert. I could not deny, ever, in all of my power, that I loved you, Gilbert. Perhaps I still would, had things worked out. Twenty or so years later--I'm ashamed to say I lost count--things are better. I wonder... if in the future, you and I would have been looked upon with smiles as we held hands. I wonder if people would have embraced you, rather than spat upon the ground you walked._  
>  _I wonder if you would have loved me, too._
> 
> _We were born in the wrong era, both of us. Perhaps you were born in the wrong body, or I. I wonder if you ever wore that ribbon that I left outside your door backstage. I wonder if it smells like you, still._
> 
> _I've wondered a lot of things, lately. I'm older, now, though I'm hardly old enough to have memories such as this. I'm far too young to be this sad. I find happiness, of course, in the piano, in sunflowers, in flighty thoughts, things that remind me of you. But I am dipped in sadness. It clings to me, was painted upon my skin the night you turned your face from me like the sunflower faces the sun, and I watched your feathers singe in the glow._  
>  _I watched you burn._
> 
> _I should have reached in and saved you. But I was scared._
> 
> _Forgive me, Gilbert._

_\- Your Serge_

* * *

      The night was a chilly autumn one, with an air that seemed to nip and bite without any aid of the wind. Instead, the wind seemed sleepy, too lethargic to blow more than a soft gust against a young man's cheeks as he walked down the dark, lamplit street. He pauses in front of a building, a smallish deal with a quiet demeanor that was as deceptive as the rest of the calm, seemingly peaceful street, with its homeless population begging on the curbs and hiding in the shadows when the authorities marched by. But the building was more what Serge was interested in, despite him slipping a few coins out of his pocket and handing them with a skilled secrecy to an old woman on the steps of the place, smiling at the meek "God bless you, sir" that was given.

      And with that, the young man went inside, and the lights of the stage made him squint until his pupils deemed it fit to get used to the way things were about to be for the next several hours.

      Serge did not usually frequent these types of places. It felt strange to think that something so extravagant could be going on in a place like this, when most of the country was destitute and grey with the sadness and resentment of a loss that Serge was far too young to remember.

      But here, the cabaret made one forget those things. The girls with their smiling faces and giggling, blushing facades--but of course, who was Serge to call it a facade? Perhaps they truly were enjoying themselves to see the majority of the men in the crowd gawking and smiling at them--drew all attention away from the bleak depression outside that cozy little building, and perhaps, perhaps, that was precisely why Serge was there.

      It was strange to be so affected by a nationwide feeling without having been a true part of it. In a way, Serge wished he'd been old enough to retain the event in his mind. At the moment, he just felt left out. Germany had lost the war; this was obvious. But Serge hadn't been there. So why should he care? His father had been French, and his mother of Roma descent, painting his darker skin a color that often got him a few scornful looks, which was enough to fuel his indignant anger and permeating sadness. But even so, the war eluded him. Even after so many years, Germany still held the attitude of a defeated country, of a loser. There were, of course, rumors, as to some strange new political faction that could be forming that promised to restore Germany to its former glory...

      Ah, but the show was starting. Serge shifted in the seat he'd been shown to, and his fingers drummed lightly against his glass, a light rum mix that promised to warm his chilly limbs but promised just as sweetly not to get him tipsy. Serge made a point to always be alert, especially in places like this. It wasn't as if his skin color was the norm in Germany, and it was not uncommon for a few drunk individuals to get a bit violent. Usually security took care of things, regardless, but one could never be too careful. Besides, the more alcoholic things were considerably more expensive, and though Serge was far from poor, his father's inheritance made sure of that, he detested wasteful spending with a passion. He supposed he inherited that from his father as well.

      As to be expected, the girls' outfits were flashy and sleek, and Serge found himself smiling at their showy song and dance. He glanced away as one in particular spotted him and blew him a kiss, a bashful smile on his face. He wasn't used to such a risque atmosphere, and admittedly, Serge was a bit of a prude, he supposed. He didn't like to admit it, but girls made him... nervous. The idea of sex made him even more nervous. He liked girls, of course, for what boy didn't? Serge's fingers paused on the thought, his eyes growing a bit more contemplative, if not subdued. Yes... what boy didn't love girls, or want one as a wife... 

      But Serge had never been very involved in the presence of the fairer sex. They'd always been a mystery to him, the feminine mystique one of intimidating impermanence in his life. As a boy, he'd gone to an all-boys Catholic school in France, per the wishes of his late father, and the strict atmosphere had been a comfort to him, for the majority of his time there. Of course, boys would be boys, and hormones flared bright as stars on hot summer nights at that place...

      Serge swallowed, the color in his face darkening slightly as he remembered. Yes, two boys had been caught doing... unsavory things behind the greenhouse. Though, to Serge, he supposed... it hadn't been terribly unsavory. At least not the rumors he'd heard. Some boys had said the two had been holding hands. Another few might have reported the two kissing. A third rumor, necking and petting and gasping into each other's mouths. A fourth...

      But the expulsion the two boys received hadn't seemed right to Serge. Yes, such actions had been against the rules, so it was their own fault they had to be sent home. But... there were nights when Serge, too, wondered if such a thing could even be possible. To look at a boy in the same way Serge was expected to look at a girl... But Serge quickly stashed those thoughts away, as he'd always done in the past. The girls' show was still going on, and it was rude of him not to pay attention. Serge sipped at his drink, letting the soft buzz of alcohol calm him. This place was not a place to reminisce. The cabaret was a place to forget, not to remember.

      Perhaps hours later, Serge wasn't particularly paying attention to the time, the girls' show ended, and with a flourish of jazzy piano they cooed and waved goodbye to the audience and disappeared with giggles and flutters behind the curtain. Serge clapped with the rest of the audience, a delighted smile on his face at the energy and gaiety in the crowd. He supposed he should be going soon... but... really, what was just one more drink. Another round ordered, Serge listened to the announcer prattle on about how lovely it was to see everyone, and how a certain few of the girls might love to spend a little time with a lucky guy backstage after the show, which just about sent the crowd roaring. Serge smiled to himself, blushing slightly with secondhand embarrassment, and he sipped his drink, watching the announcer bow extravagantly to the crowd.

      "And now, ladies and gentlemen, it is my humble pleasure to present to you... the August Boys!" The crowd seemed to cheer with only slightly less enthusiasm for what was to be the boys' show, and Serge settled back in his seat, relaxing as he let his eyes wander around the crowd. Surprisingly... even a few of the men looked eager. He blinked, somewhat surprised by this fact, and set his short glass down, rubbing a thumb over the condensation on the glass. Finally, he deemed it must be fine to indulge himself a little--indulge? Was that really the right word? Serge wasn't sure, and hardly had time to think, because the moment his eyes met the stage to greet the young men streaming out, he felt like he'd been kicked in the chest.

      Among the dancers was a boy that couldn't have been older than a teenager. Could he? Surely he had to be, if he was working in a place like that. In all honesty when Serge had first laid eyes upon the boy, he'd thought him to be a woman. Unlike the other dancers, who wore slim, black, sleeveless outfits, this fair-skinned boy wore draping, long, sheer fabrics that fluttered as he walked to the front of the line, blond hair cascading around his face as he tossed it and gazed into the crowd, with eyes the color of the most precious jewel Serge could think of that seemed to shine with the light of heaven in the harsh light of the stage...

      And at last Serge took a breath, for he realized he'd nearly forgotten how to.


	2. An Offer Comes, You Take

     The boys' show was not as flashy as the girls', but it held more power to it. Unsurprisingly, the blonde boy, the doll-faced, scarlet-lipped boy, as Serge would later describe him, seemed to be the center of the show. The other boys' dances surrounded the performance of the blonde, but to Serge, much to his disappointment, he seemed more like a prop than a dancer himself. The other performers would lift him, spin him, harmonize with him, and smile around him while the crowd cheered and whistled, but the blonde's lips stayed pursed, tense, despite the angelic voice that spilled out of him when he opened them.

     Serge hadn't realized how closely he'd been watching the boy, to notice such things. He was practically hypnotized, as he would later be ashamed to realize, by the almost androgynous fae creature on the stage, and Serge's dark eyes never left the boy for a moment. He didn't register any sort of attraction, yet. No, it was more like... curiosity. Who was this boy? Where did he come from? What was his name? Why didn't he smile? These were the sort of questions that buzzed though Serge's mind, aided by the alcohol washing over his brain. He wanted to know this boy with more intimacy than he would prove to let on. Why did the other dancers dance with him in such a way, like they would a girl? Was he a girl, in truth? What did he smell like...?

"Another refill, sir?"

     Serge jumped, finally snapping out of his daze, and turned to look up at the waiter, who was looking at him with raised eyebrows and a smile. Admittedly, Serge would never get used to being called 'sir.' "Oh," Serge murmured, a little foggy, then smiled and nodded. "Well, I suppose... Yes,  _danke_." Just one more drink wouldn't hurt...

     As Serge listened to the rum drink fill the glass again, making the ice tinkle like a wind chime against the glass, his eyes wandered back to the stage, and the glass wandered back to his lips as he took a bigger swig of the drink than was perhaps normal for the young man's usual demeanor. He needed to stop that, soon, and get out. His thoughts were wandering again. Was it possible? To look at a man in the same way one would a woman? Was such a thing really possible? He needed to leave. There was nothing wrong with admiring beauty. Serge felt the guilty shame creep up his throat. It wasn't possible. No, no it wasn't, it hadn't been in that school... he was going to get expelled. There was nothing wrong with admiring beauty. But that was years ago, he wasn't at the school anymore, oh, he was drunk... there was nothing wrong... he was definitely a bit drunk...

     In his frantic thoughts, Serge hardly noticed the sound of the chair next to him scraping on the floor, or the sound of it creaking and groaning as a heavy-set man sat down beside him.

      "What a show, isn't it, boy?" The man's gruff, excited voice brought Serge out of his stupor with a jolt, and Serge whipped his head around to look up at the man, a massive, broad-shouldered person with a trimmed beard and intelligent eyes.

      "Oh," Serge breathed out, relaxing, and he blinked at the stage, then back at the man, nodding his head and smiling. "Yes, they're... they're very talented, all of them. Herr August must train them very well..."

      The man chuckled a hearty laugh, his shoulders shaking and his girth bumping the table slightly. Serge quickly steadied his drink. "Of course! Herr August has a tight rein on both the girls and the boys. They practice often, aren't allowed to drink or smoke... it must be a difficult life..." he mused, and Serge blinked, glancing back at the stage. He hadn't imagined something like the cabaret could be so strict... "Now, you're going to have to forgive me for my impudence. Would you happen to be related in any way to the name of Aslan Battour?" the man asked, leaning forward to look Serge in the eye.

      Serge's eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat of surprise in his chest. "Yes!" he exclaimed in a gasp. "Yes, sir, he is––he was my father, sir." Serge nearly yelped in surprise as the man grabbed his hand and pumped it up and down in a rough handshake, making Serge's dark curls bounce.

      "Erhard Watts," the man said quickly, a joyful twinkle in his eyes. "Oh, bless this miraculous meeting! I thought I saw Aslan's face in yours. He and I both went to the Lacombrade Academy... the one in Arles? The very old one--"

      "Yes, yes sir, I went there, as well," Serge stammered out, bewildered by the man's presence and energy, which completely distracted him from the stage. "I graduated a year ago and moved here with some of my classmates... I-I live in a tenant house not too far from here."

      "Oh, wonderful! Wonderful! What is your name, boy? Tell me, please," Watts cried, gripping Serge's hand tighter.

      "Serge Battour, herr Watts..." Serge mumbled. He was completely taken aback by this Watts' enthusiasm, but it made a flush of embarrassed happiness glow on Serge's cheeks to think that his father was something to be admired. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

      "The pleasure's entirely mine, Battour," Watts said, then let out a jovial, one-syllable laugh that cut the air. "Oh! It's been years since I've spoken that name in such a way. He was three years my junior, but  _oh_  the rivalry we had. Aslan was a prodigy, in the highest sense of the word. He passed the Baccalauréat at seventeen, you know! Oh, that bastard of a father always pushed him so... oh, forgive me, forgive me, did you know your grandfather, Battour?"

      "Um. No, sir--"

      "Oh, no matter, it's for the best. Oh, yes! I nearly forgot what I was so eager to ask you," Watts quickly interrupted, finally releasing Serge's hand, which had been growing quite sweaty, though Watts didn't mention it in his fervor. "Tell me, herr Battour, do you play the piano?"

      Serge stared blankly at the man for a moment. His father had been a piano player, but to call him such a simple thing was an understatement. Aslan Battour lived at the piano; his hands had been wide, his fingers strong, his breath even and his eyes sharp. A true pianist prodigy. Some of Serge's earliest memories were of sitting atop his father's old piano, watching Aslan's hands as they brought music forth from the instrument's keys. Sometimes Aslan would even hold Serge in his lap and guide his small, pudgy hands to keys, teaching him how to play the simplest of songs... Serge never really could leave the piano, after that.

      "Yes, sir, I love to play the piano very much," Serge said truthfully, his dark eyes soft with fondness of memories. "I may even be so bold as to say I play it well, if the keys are heavy enough, and the audience just a bit drunk. Then, I would say, I play like a dream," Serge joked, and Watts let out a hearty laugh, slapping the table and making Serge's glass rattle. Once again, he steadied it, and took the opportunity to drink.

      "Fantastic! I'm sure you sell yourself short, though, Battour. Very short. In times like these, selling yourself short can only hurt you," Watts said, raising his bushy eyebrows at Serge with a smile. "Now tell me, how well do you play the piano?"

      Serge blushed slightly at that, glowing with embarrassment, and he set his drink down, nodding. "Well... I learned under Professor Luche at the Academy, and I was told he also taught my father. He... he'd said that I had my father's skill, so I suppose... I could believe him," he said, half-mumbling, not used to talking about himself.

      Watts' eyes shone with planning, and he leaned forward, the chair creaking even behind the lively music. "I'll cut right to the chase, then, Serge Battour. You might not know; I am the owner of this cabaret." Serge's eyes widened at this, his shoulders tensing slightly, and he swallowed, nodding his head in response. "And I have a confession to make. Our pianist is quitting very soon. He's joined some new progressive group and says he's sick of how I run things here. Can you believe it?" Serge blinked, and opened his mouth to answer, when Watts interrupted again. "So I say, let him go. Good riddance! Because I have my new pianist right here."

      At this, Watts stuck out a hand to Serge, as if to shake, his eyes bright. Serge stared at the hand in front of him, then at his drink, then slowly glanced back at the stage, where the boys still danced, and he flicked his eyes back to Watts' eager face. Without letting himself think otherwise, he clapped his hand to Watts' and shook it up and down. "With pleasure, sir," he breathed, his heart fluttering, as if the older man's excitement had transfered to Serge from the contact. "When shall I start?"

      "Tomorrow," Watts said quickly, firmly patting Serge on the back of the hand in gratitude. "Tomorrow night! You must come tomorrow morning, though, so that you can learn the pieces. I'm certain you can do it. How are your sight reading skills? Oh, I'm certain they're flawless. Aslan's were. Oh, bless this meeting, God, bless this young man." Serge's eyes were wide with bewilderment at Ehard's fervent words, and he laughed lightly, letting the tension leak out of his shoulders. "Well. I will see you tomorrow at eight in the morning precisely. Is that alright?"

      "Yes, sir, I'll be there for sure," Serge said, nodding his head as Watts released his hand, undaunted by the challenge of learning new pieces. He only hoped his playing wasn't rusty... it had been a year, just about... "Thank you very much, herr Watts. This is an honor... I hope I won't tarnish your image of my father, at all," he murmured, with a humorous note to his voice.

      "Nonsense, Battour. Don't worry your head with such silly things; you will be perfect for the part. And of course, you will be paid handsomely!" Serge blinked at that, startled, and he began to stammer out something like a thank you, or perhaps a denial, but Watts was already pushing the chair back and standing up. "I shall leave you to enjoy the rest of the show. It's a lively one, tonight!" he laughed, and strutted away, coattails flapping as he walked briskly to another table. Serge stared at his receding form, his mind whirling, and he found it much easier to simply focus on the stage again, on indulging himself. Yes, he supposed that  _was_  the right word, wasn't it.


	3. Give a Working Boy a Chance

      The show ended just as the girls' had, with a flurry of applause and whistles while the boys slipped behind the curtains haltingly, always casting a few more flirtatious looks and friendly waves out at the crowd before fully disappearing.

      All except the blonde. He was the first to walk offstage, and disappeared quickly, the black curtains billowing around him and swallowing his small body up like smoke. Serge felt his heart sink slightly, but not enough to stop clapping. The alcoholic buzz had worn off by now, leaving him with what could be described as a gentle smattering of headaches around his temples, but he'd had a good time, and didn't have more than a few regrets about buying so many drinks. And now he had a  _job!_  That was more than most people could say in that time.

      Some part of Serge wanted to stay behind, to wait until everyone left so he could ask about the blonde boy. But, he reminded himself, surely the boy was a regular. Surely... he should still be there when Serge came the following day. Deciding to trust this hopeful thought, Serge set his empty glass on the edge of the table for a waiter to get, and he stood up, smoothing out the wrinkles in his waistcoat. He caught Erhard's eye as he moved to leave, and the man waved to him excitedly, to which Serge responded with a light, almost uncomfortable chuckle and wave as several of the men at the table turned their eyes to stare at Serge.

      He quickly escorted himself out, after that.

      Despite his headache, Serge walked to the tenant house with a renewed energy. His breath puffed out in clouds as he walked briskly, trailing off like a train's steam down the night street. It was surely after midnight... he would need to be quiet going inside, as to not wake up Karl and Pascal. Fishing into his pocket, fumbling for his keys, Serge stepped up onto the threshold of the tenant house and carefully unlocked the door, keeping as quiet as possible in the echoing street corner. Finally, he slipped inside and scurried up to his room, leaving his boots at the door.

      Serge readied the key again--every door could be opened by the same key in the tenant house, which was both comforting as well as discomforting, all at the same time. Given that it was an all-male residence, minus the owner and occasional cleaning ladies and cook, no one really had anything to hide. If the boys wanted to do any fooling around with a lady, they would have to get a hotel room, Ms. Boehler had said with a huffy firmness that made the men stand at attention. She would be having none of that sinfulness in her tenant house, was that understood! And they'd all nodded, and had been given their keys. Serge smiled at the memory. Ms. Boehler was herself unmarried, but was a kindly woman, welcoming Serge and his friends in with open arms, which was more than what some other tenant owners could say.

      Serge shouldn't have been surprised to open the door to find Pascal sitting in a cushioned chair with a lamp pouring light onto a book in his hands, and the bespectacled man looked up at Serge as he entered, a smirk growing on his face. 'Have a good time?' Pascal mouthed, then jerked his head at a sleeping Karl in one of the two beds, and Serge's eyes lit up in amusement at the sight of the normally so coiffed young man riddled with bedhead and snoring.

      Serge nodded in response to Pascal, who grinned at him and nodded, then returned to his book, which looked to be some sort of scientific theory book, which, admittedly, was never something Serge was interested in. Serge found comfort in classics, in learning Latin and Literature, while Pascal preferred to look to the bright and glorious future, as the older, but still quite young man had said himself. Pascal was held back several years at the Lacombrade Academy, by choice. He'd said something about wanting to master the skills there, and Serge didn't really chastise him, for Serge got a good friend out of it.

      "Drunk at all? You seem happy," Pascal whispered once Serge had gotten closer to take off his coat and hang it on the post beside the chair, and Serge grinned sheepishly and shook his head. Pascal turned up his nose, a haughty smile spreading over his stubbled face. "Well, then you didn't have a good time, did you?"

      Serge laughed lightly, his nose wrinkling, and he shrugged. "The cabaret was very nice. I talked with a man who knew my father," he said softly, but it was difficult to keep so quiet, with all the excitement buzzing in his chest. Pascal looked a little surprised at this, and he stuck a finger in his book and closed it, holding his place as he set the book on his leg, giving Serge his full attention. "He went to the same school as we all did. Herr Watts... he's given me a job, Pascal!"

      "A job!" Pascal's voice rose in incredulity, a laugh bubbling out of him. "As a  _dancer_ , surely not?" Serge's eyes widened as Pascal cackled, and his face flushed a dark red, indigence flashing over his face as he shook his head rapidly. "Or a prostitute--"

      "No, Pascal! God forgive you for such an accusation!" Serge barked, his face hot as Pascal tried to contain his giggles. "I would never accept such a thing, don't be so disgusting--"

      "Will you two  _knock it off?!_ "

      A groggy voice from the other bed shut the both of them up, and Karl shifted under the covers to flip over and squint at them. "How is anyone supposed to get any sleep in this room if you two are chattering on like a pair of noisy crows! Please, go to bed, both of you!"

      Pascal and Serge stared at Karl, speechless for a moment, and Serge quickly huffed out a breath, trying to calm himself enough to placate the black haired young man. "Terribly sorry, Karl," he said, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. "Please forgive us. Pascal here was just being a bit foolish..." Pascal blinked, then frowned indignantly at Serge's words, but said nothing, instead sniffing once and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

      Karl squinted at them, then sighed through his nose. "Just keep it down, please. I hate to be so rude, but at the rate you're going at, Fraulein Boehler will have us out on the streets for sure."

      "You worry far too much, Karl," Pascal scoffed, waving away Karl's fretting with a hand. "She's a kindly old bat who can't hear a thing, much less our squabbling."

      "Pascal!" Serge chastised, but was smiling all the same at his friend's rude words. "Don't say such a thing. Fraulein Boehler is our savior, remember. She gave us an affordable place to stay."

      "Hmph. Savior my ass, with all that money you have, Serge, you could've bought us a decent house to live in at the very least," Pascal muttered good-naturedly, then glanced at Karl, a mischievous light flashing over his face as he turned back to Serge. "And with this new job of yours at the cabaret, you'll be making enough money to buy us a mansion! Three of them!" Pascal yelped, a peal of laughter spilling out of him as Serge shoved him by the shoulders, while Karl looked on with an expression three parts horrified and one part bright red flush.

      "It isn't like that! I'm a pianist, I'm their  _pianist_  for god's sake!" Serge cried, shaking Pascal by the shoulder, jostling the man with a heated embarrassment. "He knew my father was one, so he asked me to perform as well. That's all. Y-you know I wouldn't be caught dead doing such a risque thing! You  _know!_ " Pascal's laughter finally tittered off, and crying uncle as Serge took a playful swing at his head, and the two finally collapsed into giggles, Serge's mostly to clear off the embarrassed tension in his shoulders.

      Karl stared at them both, taken aback by his noisy roommates' interaction, then huffed and flipped back over, burying himself under the covers with pink tinted cheeks. "Just go to bed soon..." he muttered, and Serge smiled, smoothing out his hair where Pascal had mussed it up in their tangle. A comfortable silence fell over the room, and Pascal glanced at Serge with a grin.

      "Pianist, huh? For Herr Watts?" he whispered to Serge. "Well, I think you'll be great at it. Everyone knows you were suited for the piano the day you were born. I remember how fond Luche was of you..." Serge's eyes shone at that, and he smiled almost bashfully, shrugging and going to the drawer to pick out his nightclothes. "Maybe we'll visit you tomorrow night! It's a Sunday, so there won't be much else to do. That is, if I can successfully drag Karl along with me. You know how he is about the sabbath."

      "Yes, yes... well, please don't force him into anything," Serge said, unbuttoning his waistcoat and slipping out of it, folding the clothes up just enough to look somewhat presentable when a maid would come to take them to wash. "Karl is our friend; we should respect him. And really, if I weren't expected to come for the job, I'd consider staying away from the cabaret tomorrow as well, for the same purpose. One can have too much fun..."

      "Nonsense," Pascal snorted, a grin on his face. "But if you two prefer to keep up that holy facade of yours, I won't stop you." Serge smiled, though a bit bemusedly, at Pascals words, then pulled a nightshirt over his head and finished undressing.

      "What's that book you're reading, Pascal?" he whispered back, curious, as he folded his pants up and set them on the edge of the dresser with the dress shirt and waistcoat. "You're about done with it, aren't you?"

      "Mmhm," Pascal mused, his eyes softening a little as he looked back at the book. "Well, it isn't the most pleasant read, subject matter-wise, but the writing is intelligent. It's very intriguing, keeps you interested, and all that..."

      "Yes, but what is it  _about_ ," Serge scoffed, his voice full of mock exasperation as he turned around to face Pascal, stalking over to him with a chuckle on his lips. "You get so sidetracked by your own thoughts, it's appalling."

      "You're one to talk," Pascal retorted, grinning up at him, and he rubbed at his stubbled chin, showing the book to Serge. Serge squinted, for the german word on the front was foreign to him. " _Grundlinien einer Rassenhygiene_... Or, 'Racial hygiene basics.' It is not a book that I would let you read, Serge," Pascal suddenly said, looking up at Serge with a serious expression that made the smile wilt off of Serge's lips. "It is not a kind book. And if you do happen to pick it up... know that I do not share its values." At this, Serge's expression twisted into a kind of nervous curiosity as to what on earth was in that book. "Is that understood?"

      Serge shifted, feeling almost as if he were a child being scolded, and he nodded his head up and down. "Yes, of course..." he said softly, and blinked in surprise as Pascal reached out to take his hand by the wrist. "Pascal, what--"

      Pascal murmured something just to interrupt Serge, and he stared intently at Serge's hand, at the dark skin, at the tendons and knuckles and the small, white scar on the skin that connected his thumb to his index finger that he'd gotten trying to climb an iron fence back in Arles when that insane poodle had chased them all through the town square... Pascal's eyes softened for a moment, and he smiled, shaking his head. "The world is changing, I'm afraid," he murmured. "People are growing more staid in their thoughts. It's a sad thing they're only looking to the past, and not the–"

      "Bright and glorious future?" Serge interrupted him, making Pascal blink in surprise, and Serge chuckled, his eyes warm. "You've said that before."

      Pascal stared at him for a moment, taken aback or perhaps lost in thought, then chuckled, releasing Serge's wrist with a playfully rough fling. "Go get some sleep. You'll need it, or you'll fall asleep at the piano bench tomorrow." Serge grinned, determined to prove his friend wrong, and he nodded, moving towards Karl's bed. He and Serge shared it, since Pascal demanded he have a bed of his own, and neither of them objected.

      "Goodnight, Pascal. Go to bed soon, too, or Karl might throw a shoe at you if you keep that light on much longer," Serge whispered, his eyes sparkling with mischief, but it was interrupted by a yawn that he stifled before it could get very far. Carefully pulling back the covers, Serge climbed into bed and settled his face on the pillow, facing away from Pascal's light, and soon enough he was falling into a soft, dreamless sleep.


	4. A Tiger is a Tiger, Not a Lamb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! Things just got away from me  
> and college has just started for me, so things still might be slow  
> from here on out. I do have a fair chunk of this story still written  
> and waiting to be posted, so I'll be releasing that little by little  
> as I work on new material. As always, comments and criticisms  
> are very much encouraged, and I hope you enjoy!

Serge set out early the next morning, admittedly a bit groggy but excited for the prospects of the day all the same. The street looked so different in the pale, cloudy light of morning than it did at night, and the fact that a very light dusting of snow had fallen on the cobblestone didn't help its case. Serge's footprints trailed behind him, disturbing the frost at a steady pace, and he stopped at the door to the cabaret, knocking once out of habit and opening the door.

Serge blinked at the sight of a young man talking to Mr. Watts in the center of the room, and as the door clicked shut, both looked up at Serge curiously. The stranger, a pale man with long blond curls and almost violet-blue eyes, eyed Serge with a look of detached distaste, while Watts grinned and clapped his hands together.

"Oh, Battour! There you are!" Watts exclaimed, leaving the young stranger to walk towards Serge briskly and stick out a hand to shake, which Serge did, not without a twinge of embarrassment on the stranger's behalf. " _Willkommen_ , welcome my dear boy. You're right on time."

"I-I was hoping I would be, sir," Serge stammered, being shaken up and down by the force of the handshake, and Watts released him, ushering him towards the stranger.

"Here. Since you'll be replacing him as pianist, I feel it's necessary for you to meet him. Serge Battour, Arion Rosemarine," Watts said, nudging Serge forward slightly, and Serge blinked owlishly at the intimidating man.

"How do you do?" Serge offered, extending a hand to the man. Now that Serge got a good look at him, he was somewhat shocked to see how young he was. Surely, he was no older than Pascal, and his delicate, beautiful features made him look almost angelic in appearance. Mildly smitten with the air of the man, Serge smiled a bit more easily as he offered his hand, but it fell slightly as this Rosemarine did not respond.

In all honesty, Rosemarine's eyes held a quiet disgust in them, and he folded his hands politely behind his back, rejecting Serge's hand. "Herr Watts, you'd replace me with this little Roma boy?" he asked, his voice silky, and Serge's heart thumped in quiet anger at the pointed remark. "I was hoping that you would at least employ someone deserving of my seat at the piano."

Watts' expression hardened, and he stepped forward, almost as if ready to protect Serge with his physical self. "It isn't your piano, Rosemarine. Regardless of how long you've been here, the piano belongs to Aslan."

Serge's eyes widened, a small intake of breath audibly echoing out of his mouth, and both men looked at him. Watts froze for a beat, then smacked his forehead. "Damn it all! I was hoping to keep that a surprise!" Watts cried, then sighed heavily, rubbing his face. "Well, there it is. Yes, Battour, the piano belonged to your father. And a great deal of work it took to transport it all the way to Germany, too..."

Rosemarine stared at Serge levelly, looking him up and down, and almost through him, Serge felt, not liking the man's stare at all. "The son of Aslan Battour," he murmured softly, an almost mocking tone to his voice as a smile barely quirked up the corners of his mouth. "A bastard son, then." The tendons in Serge's neck grew slightly more pronounced as his body tensed with outrage, and he opened his mouth to retort, but Rosemarine was walking forward and pushing past Serge and Watts, towards the door. "Regardless, I pray he performs well. You deserve the best, herr Watts," he said, looking over his shoulder at the two with a small smile, and in a flourish of golden hair, he'd slipped out the door.

Serge was quietly seething, his dark eyes locked on the door, and it was only when Watts' heavy hand gently touched his shoulder that he snapped out of his stupor. "Herr Battour," Watts said calmly, a respectful note in his voice. "Pay him no mind, I implore you."

Serge let out a breath, his shoulders drooping slightly, and he nodded his head. " _Danke_ , herr Watts... I apologize. May I see the piano?" he asked, looking up at Watts with a smile, hoping he would forget all about the unpleasant angelic face, and perhaps ask about the much more pleasant one while he was there, the blonde dancer.

"Of course!" Watts said jovially, his serious expression crinkling into a smile, and he led Serge to the side of the stage, where a dark, handsome grand piano sat waiting. Serge's eyes lit up at the sight of it, and he had to stop himself from running up to it to examine. Watts almost guessed his intentions, and he gently clapped Serge on the back, laughing. "Go to her, boy! Say hello. She's an old thing, but she plays like a charm, in the right hands."

Serge wasted no time in darting to the piano, his hands immediately drawn to the keys like a magnet. They were heavy, indeed, and rough from use, and the ivory was yellowed with age, but it was indeed a handsome piano, and Serge's eyes seemed to glow with admiration for it. He looked up at Watts, who must have seen the excitement in Serge's eyes, and he laughed, his eyebrows raising. "How does she look?"

" _Schön_ , sir, absolutely stunning," Serge breathed, his voice filled with awe as he ran his fingers over the keys. After a beat of hesitation, Serge sat down on the bench, for he remembered that this was his job now, and he had every right to do so. "I love her."

"I'm glad, herr Battour," Watts said warmly, his eyes shining, and he stepped closer, opening up a thin black folder on the stand. It fell open to reveal a flutter of pages, all covered with music, and Watts stepped back, gesturing to it. "You're to learn the first five songs solely for piano for tonight's show. Those are all of the piano solos. For the others, the band can take care of it. Is that understood?" Serge nodded his head up and down rapidly, his heart beating fast with excitement. Oh, he wanted to play right then and there, but figured such a thing would be rude with Watts still talking to him. "Good boy! Well, if you don't mind terribly much... would you entreat me to a song? It can be something you already know," he quickly added when Serge's face grew a little fixed with nervousness. "I'd just like to see how you play."

"I... well, yes, that would be fine," Serge said, a bit bewildered, and he looked back at the piano, thinking for a long moment. Just any old song... that was a lot to consider, just being put on the spot like that. Serge thought back for a moment, and quickly recalled a song that he'd played in his audition to Professor Luche. Yes, that one would do just fine. As Serge scooted the bench closer, a scraping noise rattling his ears on the floor, and he winced. He'd have to get used to that. He took a breath, aware of Watts' eyes on him, and he let his fingers brush the keys before sinking into them, a rich, slow song flowing out of his fingertips.

Watts listened in silence, one elbow resting on the piano as he closed his eyes, his mustache shifting into a smile. Serge had meant to end the song quickly, given that it was only a demonstration, but admittedly he got a bit distracted with it. Serge's eyes slipped closed as well as he played the piano by memory, the slow song allowing him to feel out the keys with his fingers before he pressed, the small pocket of time letting him fall into instinct and truly lose himself in the music. Watts hardly noticed as the song got longer, but after eight minutes, he blinked his eyes open and glanced at Serge, an almost affectionate twinkle in his eye at Serge's blissful smile.

Watts waited until Serge's hands slowed and finally landed on the last note, and he straightened up to clap heartily, whistling and startling Serge out of his reverie. " _Wunderbar_ , herr Battour! Simply amazing. Though, I must admit, we're going to have to get you hooked on some faster paced songs, or the dancers might stumble!" Watts laughed, and Serge let out a breath, a smile spreading over his face. "They're not used to such classic music. You'll have to cut loose a bit," he said, raising his eyebrows in a teasing manner, then gently slapped the top of the piano with his palm. "I'll leave you to it. Just have these learned by tonight. If you need something to drink, there's something backstage, I believe. No wine, I'm afraid. Herr August is far too worried about his dancers getting into it. Though I'm sure there's some private stash in his room... but regardless, please make yourself at home."

Serge nodded, glancing at the pages on the piano, then looked up at Watts as the man turned to leave. "Ah, herr Watts, wait... should I really be playing right now? Don't the dancers... do they..." Watts raised his eyebrows at Serge, bemused, and Serge stammered, looking a little flustered. "Don't they live backstage?"

There was a beat of silence, before Watts laughed, his voice echoing in the empty room. "Oh, no, gracious no. Well, a few of them do, I suppose, since they have no other place to go, but the majority live around town. I wouldn't drop in on them, if I were you, though. Some can be a bit disagreeable, occasionally, and the boys tent to flirt... quite forcefully." Serge blinked at that, just as bemused, and he blushed slightly, not knowing why.

"Well. Ah... what about..." Serge trailed off, and Watts blinked, turning back around to face Serge fully. The boy looked somewhat conflicted, like a question was just on the tip of his tongue.

"What's that, Battour?" he asked, tilting his head at Serge, who suddenly looked very pink in the face as he shook his head from side to side quickly.

"N-nothing. It's nothing, herr Watts, I'll get right to work," Serge said quickly, and turned back to the piano with an urgency that seemed to not invite any more questions. Watts simply smiled and shrugged, then waved to Serge, a farewell echoing from his mouth as he walked away and into a back room, but not before unlocking it. Serge relaxed visibly once his footsteps receded, and he slumped in the bench slightly. He swallowed, rubbing at his temple, then tried to smile, for that usually put him at ease. It worked, more or less, and he shifted the cuffs on his wrists, and began reading through the music, his fingers slowly mapping out the new notes.


	5. Sittin' All Alone Like That

Time passed quickly, seconds falling away like Serge's sure, steady fingers on the old ivory keys. It wasn't long before they danced over the flighty, jazzy notes presented to him, the new style of music making his blood rush with excitement. What a revolutionary sound... It wasn't long before Serge's foot abandoned the pedals and tapped to the beat beneath the piano, successfully lost in the music.

So lost, in fact, that it was only the old clock tower outside chiming a total of twelve times, just enough times to catch his attention, that could draw him out of his playing. He took a breath, possibly the first one in awhile, and he coughed, realizing how dry his throat was. He'd been there for a few hours... he supposed a drink would be fine. He got up with a grunt, a bit stiff from sitting for so long, and made plans in his head as to where he could get some lunch as he made his way backstage. He scaled the short set of stairs to the stage and glanced out at the empty room, a small chill of borrowed nervousness passing through him. He really couldn't imagine standing up there, performing, much less in such a flamboyant way.

Serge moved past the billowing black curtains, soft to the touch, and glanced around. Backstage, it was a lot less gaudy. Most of it was unpainted, or very drably so, and the lights were simple and practical. To Serge's direct left stood a small white refrigerator, his target. Back further the space ended in a white wall interrupted only by an olive green door, with two hallways stretching and taking the wall with them in opposite directions from the door.

Serge walked towards the fridge, taking note of the layout of the room; he guessed perhaps the girls came from one hallway, and the boys the other, unless that green door led to something. He reached for the fridge, and drew in a sharp breath of surprise as he heard the click of something unlocking behind him, and he whirled around to face the back wall.

The blonde boy froze, key in hand and stuck in the lock of the green door, and his head shot up to stare at Serge. Serge's mouth hung open in surprise as he met the other boy's emerald eyes, his heart skipping about three beats in his chest. His fingertips kept contact with the handle of the small refrigerator handle, the chill from a draft in the door of it keeping him grounded to reality, despite the angelic boy in front of him's unconscious attempt to pull him into a spiraling otherworldly lightness...

"Um," Serge stuttered out, and the boy tensed as Serge took one step closer. The girlish creature took a step back, his back pressing to the wood of the door behind him, and immediately turned to disappear behind the faded green door with a flash of rich blonde curls.

Serge stood, dumbfounded by what he'd seen, his knees weak with the strange rush of it all. Oh, how his heart was beating... how strange. How strange it all was! His mouth was so dry... Quickly dragging his eyes away from the door, Serge hurriedly fumbled with the fridge handle and found a green bottle of cola, the first drink he could find, and made himself scarce, returning to the piano in a daze. He sat down on the bench, fiddling with the cap of the bottle until he opened it with a pop and a gasp, jerking as fizz spilled over onto the white keys of the keyboard. "Shit--ah," Serge breathed, hurriedly putting the bottle on the floor and looking around wildly until he spotted an empty table, and he darted for it to grab the table cloth and press it to the keys.

His racing mind had been put on a pleasant halt with this new problem, and for the time being, the boy was forgotten. He wiped the keys furiously, and let out a breath of relief to see the keys hadn't stained terribly much at all. He bent down to the floor to wipe up the foam and cola that had spilled there, and at last he picked up the bottle and took a long swig. He swallowed with a slight grimace, frowning at the label. He never did like soda much.

The rest of the day went smooth enough, with few interruptions. Serge had decided the best thing at that moment was to go to lunch at a small bakery, ordering a few muffins and a cup of coffee. He'd eaten at a quick, halting pace, as if debating with himself whether or not he truly wanted to go back, now. The piano called him, and his duty as the new pianist called him even louder, but those emerald eyes still burned in his mind, and he shivered, as if he'd seen a ghost. The boy was ghastly enough. Without the usual makeup and soft dusting of blush on his cheeks, the blonde had been pallid, sickly looking, hunched in a cloak drawn round his shoulders.

But Serge tried not to think about that. He'd gone back, finished every song and played them ten times over, until he was certain he at least had a chance of not messing up during the performance. Before he knew it, the tables were set by waiters he hadn't even noticed walk out, and the space was filling with early arrivals, and the backstage was alive with movement. Serge sat at his piano, shaking like a leaf. He hadn't been prepared for this level of nervous energy crackling through the air. He bit his lip, dark eyes flashing with fear as he looked around the room, and he noticed that some of the customers were looking at him in bemusement, a few scowling slightly. He shrank back, wanting to hide behind the stark black and white of the piano.

"Herr Battour!" Serge looked up with a gasp, surprised so much that he coughed loudly when Watts clapped him gently on the back. "How are you, my boy! Doing well? Everything practiced, I'm sure?" he said joyfully, giving Serge a grin, and Serge glanced at the customers, who in seeing Watts was friendly with this newcomer of mixed race, went about their business. Serge relaxed slightly, then smiled, nodding.

"I-I certainly hope so, herr Watts... I've done my best to memorize everything. I... I won't lie to you, I'm very nervous," Serge said, tugging at his collar, tight around his throat. Watts looked him over, his brows furrowing, and he moved Serge to face him, his large hands going for Serge's collar, which made the smaller boy jump. "Sir--"

"You need to relax, herr Battour! Loosen your collar, take off that tie, for God's sake, and that jacket! It's going to get hot in here, you know!" Watts barked, loosening the tie so it hung loose around Serge's neck, and Serge swallowed, not used to such a thing, but it felt very nice to be freer. Following Watts' advice, his hands went to unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt, and he sighed out a short breath, his shoulders drooping as he relaxed. "There you are, herr Battour. Much better. Now you look a little more like a jazz player."

Serge grinned at that in spite of himself, his cheeks warm with excitement. "I hope so, herr Watts," he repeated himself, nodding his head up and down. "Thank you very much, again, for helping me out..."

"Not so, Battour! You're helping  _me_ , remember? It's about time I got that freeloader Rosemarine out of here. Can you believe he actually spent the night here, a few nights? And he wasn't even a dancer!" Watts began to prattle on, and Serge smiled in embarrassment for the former pianist, however much he set Serge on edge. That violet gaze... Serge frowned slightly, then shook his head to clear it as Watts recollected his thoughts. "Oh, look at me, distracting you. I'll leave you to it, Battour! And good luck tonight! Break a leg, as they say," he chuckled, waving at Serge as he went up the stairs to check backstage.

Serge watched him go with a goofy smile on his face. There was something very comforting about Watts, despite his very boisterous manner. He felt like an uncle, or some happy grandfather that Serge never really knew and was happy to know now. Smiling to himself, put somewhat at ease by Watts' words, Serge began organizing his music, dog-earing the pages he would need to play, when he just about nearly cut himself with the paper as a second person called his name.

"Serge!" Pascal's voice rang out over the commotion, and Serge blinked, looking up at his friend as he struggled through the crowd to reach Serge. "By God, you look good on a piano bench!" he laughed, and Serge grinned, laughing with him.

"Well, I suppose that's a good thing, then," Serge said, tittering off with a huff of air, smiling up at Pascal. Pascal grinned and reached out to ruffle Serge's hair affectionately, effectively mussing up the curls even more. "Hey! Don't, Pascal!"

"Oh, but you  _have_  to look the part, Serge," Pascal said, cocking an eyebrow, almost hidden by the frames of his glasses, and he smirked, crossing his arms. "A jazz player. I never would have guessed it, in all honesty, with how much you cling to the classics."

"Oh, come off it," Serge snapped, good-naturedly, waving Pascal's words away with a knowing smile. "You act as if I've never cut loose."

"I know you always avoided drinking the alcoholic cider when we went into town at Lacombrade," Pascal retorted, equally lightheartedly, and Serge snorted indignantly, sticking his nose up.

"Just because I wouldn't drink with you all, doesn't mean I'm uptight. I just don't like the way alcohol makes me feel, is all. And it costs money."

"Frugal! Too frugal! That's borderline stingy, old Scrooge!" Serge rolled his eyes at Pascal's accusations, leaning an elbow on the piano's key cover as he looked over at the crowd.

"So where's Karl?" Serge asked, looking at his bespectacled friend, who blinked, then shrugged.

"Said he didn't want to come. Sabbath, after all, remember? We guessed at this, and our hypothesis was correct," Pascal said, perking right back up proudly, a chuckle in his voice. "He's quite predictable, really."

"Ah, is that so..." Serge trailed off as he glanced around, noticing that people were beginning to settle down in their seats, and his eyes flashed to the old clock on the wall, his heart leaping into his throat. "Ah! Pascal, sit down. It's about to start," he whispered, not sure why he was trying to be quiet. "I'll catch you after the show and we can walk home together, ja?"

Pascal's eyes shone at that, and a laugh shook his shoulders as he ran a hand through his hair. " _Ja?_ You've been spending too much time with these Germans," he said lightly, his tone joking as he waved to Serge and darted towards a table. "You'll do fine, my friend! Fantastic, even!"


	6. Having a Marvellous Time

Serge watched him go with a wary smile, on edge now that the commotion was dying down. He swallowed and looked back to the clock. Two minutes 'til the show started. His heart was beating far too fast in his chest, and he could feel it through his whole body, right down to the pads of his fingertips. The secondhand was moving too fast. Too slowly. Too fast. Oh, what if he messed up? He'd practiced, sure, but if he made an error, he would disappoint Herr Watts and become a laughing stock... More so than he already was. He glanced at the audience, which was a mistake. Several men and women were looking at him with suspicious gazes, as if surprised to see someone with such dark skin at the piano, and Serge could feel the sweat collecting where his collar met his neck—

Oh, jesus, he was ten seconds late. Serge's hands flew to the keys, and immediately he began to plunk out a merry tune, his heartbeat deafening in his ears. His playing was too choppy. But it was a choppy song! Relax, relax, Serge, just relax...

"Ladies and gentlemen, good evening!..." Serge tried to focus on the sheet music in front of him, and not on the MC's loud, boisterous words and oh _god_ now they were all clapping, and he couldn't even hear the notes coming out of the piano for a moment. Were they the right ones? Was he on the right song anymore? How much time had passed? The girls were already coming on stage... Next song. The last stanza just ended. He was on the right page, everything was fine, everything was fine.

Trying not to let himself get distracted by the girls' song and dance, Serge kept his eyes on the paper. Relax. Breathe. Breathe as slow and often as you can, and relish each breath, for each breath is life and the ability to do and say more. His father had said such a thing when Serge was younger, and out of the many things Aslan told to him, that particular phrase was one of the only ones that had stuck in Serge's mind. Yes, each breath is precious, smooth and life giving, to better one's performance and peace of mind.

His father had died young of consumption. Precious breath, indeed.

But these thoughts and memories could not invade Serge's mind now, for he was focused on his task, and it was a focus that would be hell to break. His dark eyes followed each note on the sheet, his hands flying fast and graceful over the keys. It was much smoother, now, hardly jazzy but certainly better than that stiff little number he'd done in the introduction. In the back of his mind he still burned with embarrassment over that, but it was past, and the current situation was far more important. He had a job to do, after all.

A second song, performed. A third. By now, Serge was more than relaxed, he was positively serene. Things were going well. The audience was roaring, and the amount of energy crackling through the air both energized Serge and put him at great ease. It was a thing paradoxical in nature and no less invigoratingly pleasant. Serge certainly looked forward to doing this again...

"Herr Battour!" Watts' harsh whisper cut through the applause in Serge's right ear, and Serge tensed as Watts leaned down closer to whisper softer to him. "Cut the last song that you're to play. There's been a change of plans. You don't have to worry about that one." Serge turned to look up at Watts, his dark eyes wide, and he nodded, letting out a relieved breath. Just one more song, then. He could certainly manage that.

" _Danke_ for telling me, herr Watts," Serge murmured, nodding his head, then straightened up in realization. "Ah, I'm next up. Wish me luck," he said with a smile in Watts' direction, who was already backing away with a huge smile on his face.

"There's a boy. Oh, turn your page!" he whispered, and was gone, rushing off to join his friends at their table. Serge nodded, quickly going to shuffle the sheet music around until he found the proper song. He took a deep breath, and put his fingers to the keys, by now grown warm with the activity of his fingers, and began to play the ritzy tune, smiling as he loosened up and played with a little more flair than perhaps was professional. But the crowd certainly seemed to enjoy it.

And, Serge managed to think, barely letting his mind wander, this worked out for the better. The fifth song he was to play, the last, would have been during the boys' performance. This way he could watch it... and perhaps see that blonde boy again. Serge briefly wondered, behind his more pressing thoughts, why on earth he had taken such an interest in the fae androgyne, but before he could provide himself a legitimate answer he had to reel his mind back in to focus more on the cluttered sixteenth notes dancing across the page.

Serge's fingers hit the keys with a definite, strong final chord that he let resonate, his foot finding the pedal and holding it as he leaned back with a short, soft laugh of triumph, lost in the sound of the applause. He sat back on the piano bench as the girls waved and fluttered and blew kisses to the crowd, and his hands joined the roar of clapping, smiling as one of the girls caught his eye and winked at him. He blushed, glancing away with a sheepish smile, then finally let his foot off the pedal as the girls slipped behind the curtains.

Serge glanced over at where Pascal was sitting, and he raised his eyebrows, noticing that Watts was talking to him with animated gestures and a big smile. Serge chuckled, watching the two for a moment, then blinked as he noticed the MC was beginning to introduce the boys' show. He shifted a bit, glancing down at his piano, then quickly closed the key cover and regathered the papers to make them a bit neater.

"Psst! Serge!" Serge jumped as Pascal hissed a whisper at him from behind, and he glanced behind himself to look up at Pascal with wide eyes, a question on his lips. "C'mon, herr Watts just told me you don't have any more songs to play for the night. You were a hit! But Fraulein Boehler is cooking her special stew tonight and we should get home quick to have some. Look how things worked out!" he said excitedly, grabbing Serge's shoulder and shaking him playfully to snap him out of the odd daze he was in.

Go... home? But... Serge glanced at the stage, where the MC still stood, and he frowned, his brows furrowing. No, he really wanted to stay. But... how to tell Pascal that? What reason did he have to stay? Other than... "Um," Serge began eloquently, "I... I feel like it would be rude to just leave right in the middle. The boys practice just as hard as the girls do, I would assume..."

Pascal raised his eyebrows at that, giving Serge a quizzical look. "And they have a whole audience to soak up their vanity," he said, flashing a smirk at Serge and gently tugging on him. "Come now! It's better to slip away while the MC is running his mouth..."

"No!" Serge snapped softly, frowning at Pascal. He _had_ to ask about that boy. He just had to. "I'm staying. You can go home by yourself," he said, and Pascal blinked wide-eyed at him, taking a step back and holding his hands up in a peaceful gesture.

"Hey, hey, alright," Pascal murmured, a little bit taken aback. "No need to get so hot-blooded. Though, I suppose that's your nature. I get it, but I'm not missing out on the food. I'll try to save you a little, yeah?" he said, leaning forward again and chuckling, more relaxed.

Serge stared at him for a moment, his cheeks a little pink, before he finally nodded and smiled, relaxing as well. "Yeah, thanks. That would be really great," Serge murmured, then blinked as the band picked up the speed, and he glanced at the stage, then back at Pascal. However, the older boy was already going out the door, having weaved expertly through the crowd, and Serge let out a breath, a twinge of guilt in his heart. Pascal would be fine, he thought to himself, turning back fully to the stage, his eyes lighting up as the boys ran on stage. His eyes immediately darted around the pack of boys, flicking over black clothes and sharp eyes, seeking out one person in particular...

Where was that blonde boy?

Serge blinked, then squinted, straining up slightly to try to see the whole stage, but it was difficult to see anything from the angle he was at. He craned his neck to see around the taller boys and over the piano, but caught no sign of the billowy clothes or soft eyes or mop of golden hair. Serge felt his heart speed up in a kind of strange indignance. Where _was_ he? Well, Serge considered, this was a new show, and thus it was very possible that the order of acts had gotten mixed around. Maybe the boy would come out later. Holding onto this thought, Serge settled back on the bench and watched the stage, unable to fight off the new worry creeping into him.


	7. How Am I to Thank You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayy, it's been a long time.  
> While I do plan to hopefully finish this fic one day,  
> I really don't consider myself in this fandom, so it's  
> entirely possible that it won't be finished. I will try  
> not to do that, though, since I know a few people  
> were excited to read it! As always, thank you for reading.  
> 

The song ended, as did another, and yet another, and before Serge knew the night had flown by and come to a close and the sound of applause was drowned out by the confusion raging through his mind. It was fear that quickly replaced confusion. Had the blonde boy just been a guest star after all? Did something happen to him? Did Serge just _imagine_ the boy?

Horrified by his thoughts, and not allowing himself to think rationally about the situation, or even consider the song that had been cut from the performance, Serge got up from his seat and darted into the crowd, trying to find Watts. He finally located the large man standing up and clapping near the side of the room, and he almost ran straight into him, catching himself on Watts' arm with a gasp that cut through the applause.

"Ho, boy!" Watts exclaimed, startled, his words ending in a laugh as he clapped his hand over Serge's smaller one. "Hello, Battour! You did positively _wunderbar_ , my boy! Absolutely--"

"Thank you, yes, th-thank you sir, but, I need to ask you something," Serge said frantically, his hair disheveled and eyes wild to give him the appearance of a madman for just a moment, before he caught himself and let out a steadying breath. Watts looked a bit alarmed, and that was the last thing Serge wanted. "Um, I... a-actually, never mind," Serge quickly said, shaking his head and offering a nervous smile. "I'll ask you later."

"Eh... well, okay, herr Battour..." Watts echoed after a quickly retreating Serge, and he frowned slightly, a little perturbed. He watched as Serge went back towards the piano to sit down, and he shrugged slightly, turning back to talk to a man beside him.

Serge stared at the piano key cover for a long moment, his hands tight on the edge of the bench. What was he _thinking?_ He couldn't just ask a question like that for no reason. 'Hey, do you know where that pretty blonde dancer went?' Serge blushed in shame at the very thought of Watts knowing he... Serge swallowed roughly, and was the furthest thing from prepared for the arm that wrapped around his neck in a friendly but somehow menacing fashion.

"You learn music fast, my _schnell braun Fuchs_ ," a rough voice attempting to sound smooth grated against Serge's ear, and the smell of smoke followed it, making Serge cough. The lanky, older boy let out a delighted cackle, and his hand hooked under Serge's collar, thumbing it gently. "Oh, you don't like cigars? And here I thought I'd had a chance..."

"Wh-who... _stop_ that!" Serge snapped, slapping the boy's arm away and standing up, all on alert. "Do I know you, sir?!" Serge trailed off, blinking as he realized the boy was one of the dancers, and he straightened up, eyes widening. "Oh, god, I'm terribly sorry for hitting you," he stammered. If this got back to Watts... it could mean his job. But the boy just laughed, cutting Serge a sly side-eyed glance from his almost black irises.

"Jack Dren, charmed," the boy, Jack, introduced himself with a bow, then straightened up with a loose smirk on his face. "And forgive me, _Fuchs_ , but you couldn't hurt me if you tried. Not with that getup. A waistcoat? In this temperature? Has the heat gone to your head?" Jack chuckled, sauntering closer and reaching out to take Serge's tie in his hands, playing with it just roughly enough to make Serge frown. "You ought to step out of some of that..."

"I'm not interested," Serge quickly said, pushing Jack's hand away with a bit more care this time, and Jack gave him a bored look, then sighed through his nose and shrugged.

"Very well, very well, little _Fuchs_. You deny me a great pleasure; I've never had a foreigner with such beautifully dark eyes before." Serge frowned at the comment, and he glanced away, before meeting Jack's eyes with a challenging look, his fists clenching and shoulders squaring in indigence.

"And you won't have one. Not until you buy a better brand of cigars," Serge added with a snort, and Jack's eyes went wide with delight.

"Aha! Ahaha, oh, what a playful thing! I like you, _Fuchs_ \--"

"It's Serge, herr Dren. Serge Battour is my name."

"I don't care. You look like a fox, you know? _Fuchs_ it is. Regardless, if you're our new pianist, I may just have to dance a little closer to your side of the stage, hm?" Jack said, leaning closer to Serge and grinning, and Serge offered a smile of strict politeness. The smell of cheap smoke was getting to him, and this boy was easily a few years his elder, and at least a head taller. Intimidated and a little disgusted, it gave Serge time to realize that he could use this to his own favor.

"I have a question," Serge said, folding his arms over his chest, protecting his tie from any more fiddling with on Jack's part. Like an overgrown tomcat, the boy was, Serge thought. "One of your dancers, a small, young-looking blonde who sang a solo last night. Where is he, tonight?"

Jack looked a little surprised at that, and something unintelligable flashed behind his eyes before a sigh hissed out his nose and slid a grin onto his face. "Ohhh... so that's how it is, hm... Gilbert's around, alright," Jack said, shifting his weight with an intimidating smile. "What's he to you, _Fuchs_?"

Serge's eyes widened, a rush of relief and worry colliding together in his chest. Gilbert... Gilbert was his name. "He's nothing to me, herr Dren," Serge said truthfully, his voice cracking slightly as his heart picked up the pace, and he wished to God that it would quiet. "I simply wondered..."

"Oh, no, I think it's different than that," Jack mused, fiddling with a lock of long brunette hair almost boredly as he looked down at Serge with a knowing smile. Serge bristled without meaning to, his blood running hot to his face and making him flush.

"What are you suggesting, herr Dren?" Serge barked, his voice rising in volume, and it was only when his voice echoed back to him that he realized the room was largely empty, that most of the crowd had stumbled home and into the chilly night. Serge's breath caught in his throat, and he turned back to Jack, who smirked smugly at him.

"I'm not suggesting anything, dear," he purred, then chuckled. "And I'm also not telling you anything until you do me a favor. Quid pro quo, _schnell braun Fuchs_ \--" That nickname was going to get very old, very fast, but Serge hardly noticed under the terror that leapt into this throat as Jack loomed over him. "I do hope you aren't as quick in bed..."

"Dren, that is _enough_."

Jack stiffened, the smirk falling off of his face, his eyes filling with dread. He hunched slightly and turned his face to stare at the tall man behind him, meeting those steely green eyes for only a moment before he quickly turned his eyes to the ground. "I'm sorry, herr August," he murmured. The imposing man made no reply, and Serge watched in wonder as the cocky boy slinked away backstage like a hound with its tail between its legs. Serge found a small smile worming onto his face as he watched Jack leave, until he noticed August's eyes were on him, and he stiffened.

"Um..." he dithered, meeting August's steely gaze before quickly glancing away. "Th-thank you very much, herr... um, herr August?" he ventured, hoping that was right. Wait... August... the _August_ boys... "Oh! You're--"

"Are you the new pianist?" August asked, barely tilting his head at Serge, taking a step closer to look him over, and Serge stood at attention his skin crawling slightly as the man's gaze dragged over every inch of him. It felt strange. Too strange, and he didn't like it at all, but this was a man to be respected, for sure. "You were magnificent tonight. Was it your first time?"

Serge smiled, a little nervously, nodding his head and quickly bringing his hands up to rebutton his shirt collar and tighten his tie, feeling the need to look presentable. "Ja, that's correct, herr August, sir... Thank you, very much," he said, giving a bow to the man, who raised an eyebrow, a smirk barely touching his lips.

"There's no need to bow in such a way. It's unbecoming," August murmured, reaching out to tap Serge on the underside of the chin with a finger, and Serge straightened up, his eyes widening a little. "And don't let the dancers bully you, either. As a member of the band, your status is higher than that of the dancers, so treat them as such, ja?"

"J-ja..." Serge murmured automatically, watching as August walked a slow circle around him, the back of his neck prickling slightly. He blinked, realizing what had been said, and he stiffened, looking at August over his shoulder. "W-wait, what? No, that's... um, sir?"

August paused, then turned to meet Serge's eyes, his own eyes fixed in a lidded, snakelike expression. Intelligent, sharp, and just a bit dangerous, Serge thought to himself, and guessed to pin the man at late thirties, perhaps early forties. His jaded green eyes certainly did not match his slender body. He looked like a dancer himself, really, and Serge realized August was taking a long time to answer.

"You're not from this country," he observed, finally speaking after what felt like a very long time. "If it's not too bold of an assumption to make."

Serge blinked, a little taken aback, then nodded his head slowly. "Th-that's correct, sir... my father, Aslan Battour--" Here, August's eyebrows twitched up, the faintest hint of surprise, before it was gone again. "--was a French viscount... my mother was a Romani woman that he fell in love with when he was young..." Serge trailed off, suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of self revelation around such a man as this, and he swallowed, raising his voice. "Herr August, I have a question I want to ask."

Emerald eyes locked on Serge's face as the words hung in the air for a moment, until August finally nodded slowly, his expression expectant and even a bit open. "I wasn't aware you were related to Battour. It's a pleasure," he murmured in a voice that Serge could only describe as silky. Not unpleasantly so, like Jack's had been, but rather inviting, and warm, but holding a strictness to it that he was sure all of the dancers respected.

Of course, Serge was beginning to find it a bit strange that his father had apparently been so well known. His expression grew scrutinizing for a moment, tempted to ask how this man knew his father, but he put that question aside for the time being and instead focused on his current, pressing curiosity. "I wanted to ask about one of your dancers, herr August."

The older man's eyes raised slightly at that, and he tilted his head, considering Serge with a new attitude of quiet interest. "One of my dancers? Is there a problem, Fuchs Battour?"

Serge stared at August for a moment, then flushed in irritation. "My name isn't _Fuchs_ , herr August, it's Serge. Serge Battour, and I ask that you call me as such," Serge stated, his voice raised slightly to get his point across. August stared at him owlishly for a few moments, steely eyes turned surprised, before a small chuckle suddenly shook out of him, a hand going to cover his smile.

"Oh, gracious. Forgive me, herr Serge Battour. I heard Dren calling you that and thought it was your real name. That was too presumptuous of me, especially when Dren is involved," August tried to explain through his soft laughter, and Serge blinked, the irate veil lifting off his heart and making him a bit giggly himself. "Ah, but yes. I'm very sorry, truly I am. Why don't we talk about this in my office?" August suggested, a tilted smile now fixed on his thin lips. "I feel the need to make the embarrassment up to you with a drink."

"Oh, that would be a fine thing, thank you sir," Serge said before he could really weigh his options. Perhaps now he could truly know about this blonde dancer, and his whereabouts. And besides, making good relationships with the higher ups of the cabaret was a valuable thing, if he was to be working there from now on.

Serge walked backstage with the tall man, staying far away enough that the man's shadow didn't fall on him, deciding it was a fair distance. He blinked as August went straight to that faded green door that he'd seen the blonde disappear into, and Serge's nerves jumped in surprise. "Oh!" he said out loud, causing August to stop with a question on his lips, turning to glance at Serge. "Oh... I mean... this--this is your office?"

August blinked slowly, fixing Serge with a curious stare. "Ja, that's correct, Battour," he murmured, clearly bemused by Serge's outburst. There was a short silence that hung in the air, until August made a soft noise that may have signified a shrug as he went to unlock the door and step back to allow Serge in. "After you, my boy," he said with a small nod, and Serge hoped his smile didn't come off as too nervous as he quickly was ushered inside.


	8. Why Waste a Drop Of the Wine?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the long absence!  
> Thank you for reading!

Before Serge knew it he was sitting on a very nicely-upholstered short sofa with a wineglass in his hand, watching the white wine slide into the glass from the bottle in August's hands. "Danke, herr August, sir," Serge murmured with a small nod, then barely winced and smiled as it filled up a bit higher than he would've liked. Still, it would be rude not to drink all of it.

"So tell me, Battour," August began, pouring himself a shorter glass of the stuff and sitting down at an oaken coffee table in a plush chair, smiling over his glass at Serge. It was not exactly what Serge would call a smile that invited anything but silence, but Serge tried to put himself at ease regardless. It wasn't as if the office was uncomfortable; it had a certain kind of rich, simple warmth to it that contrasted the man's pale complexion and manner of dress. "What business do you have here in Germany? Or have you been here your whole life? I can't imagine you came just to be a piano player in a cabaret."

Serge swallowed the small sip of wine he'd taken and smiled, shaking his head. "Oh, no, nothing like that, I'm afraid... though this is a very nice cabaret," he added, laughing lightly, albeit awkwardly. "Um... no, see, a few high school friends of mine and I decided it would be nice to study abroad in Germany. We arrived about a month early to enjoy ourselves, though, and get used to the atmosphere..." Serge paused, realizing he was rambling, and quickly busied his mouth with a longer sip of wine, blinking as August chuckled.

"So you are not from here. Well, I imagine that's fine. I hope the city is treating you well," August murmured with a small nod, simply holding the glass of wine in his hand, not drinking it. "You have a place to stay, and all?"

"Mmhm," Serge murmured in response, nodding and lowering the glass down to his lap, holding it there. "I'm staying in a tenant house not far from here... ah, the woman running it is very kind..." Serge rambled on, watching August carefully, then relaxed as August raised his own glass to his lips to take a sip. Seeing this as an invitation, Serge did so as well, surprised at the quality of the wine. "This is very good, herr August. Thank you for sharing it with me."

August waved Serge's thanks away with a hand, a thin smile on his pale face. "Not at all. I'm glad to welcome you; not many places will, these days, if I'm honest," he said with an air of perfect indifference, neither sympathy nor condescension. Even so, Serge's brows seemed to barely knit at the man's words, and he nodded, keeping a careful reign on his facial expression.

"Ja, that is true, herr August. It... was a bit difficult to find a place that would take my friends and I in without a few glares. Even so, it isn't terrible. Most people are very kind here," Serge said, smiling pleasantly at August as he sipped at his wine, finding his tense emotions were starting to unwind with the aid of the alcohol. There was something he was forgetting... ah, that's right, that's right... "But... herr August, I wanted to ask you..."

"Oh, yes, about one of my dancers, yes. Have some more wine," August continued, tipping the bottle into the glass in Serge's hands, ignoring the small noise of protest from Serge, and set the bottle back on the coffee table. Serge blinked owlishly, then sipped at his refilled glass, more out of pleasantries than really wanting any more of the rich wine. "I can assure you, Battour, that if one of my dancers has misbehaved, he or she will be punished accordingly."

Serge looked taken aback for a moment, caught halfway between a drink of wine and breathing, and he inadvertently coughed, swallowing and covering his mouth with a fist as he tried to free up his lungs again. "Oh—" he tried to speak, setting his wineglass down. "No, sir—nothing like that," he managed, clearing his throat a few times and rubbing at his neck.

"Ah. Really," August's voice took on a different tone, holding less of the soft politeness from before and more of a flat disinterest. He filled up his own wineglass a bit more, then promptly replaced the cork in the bottle and set it aside. "Well, then... what is it you want to ask?"

Serge swallowed, sensing the change in atmosphere, and he shifted in his seat, staring at his wineglass. "Well... there's... there's a dancer I was looking for. Gilbert? I-I believe?" Serge froze when he heard August barely draw in a sharp breath, and Serge's dark eyes locked with August's for a moment before a slow, humorless smile spread over August's face.

"And what business do you have with Gilbert?"

The tension of the air around them had changed so drastically that Serge felt as though he'd said something horribly offensive to the man, and he shrank back on instinct, though the wine was making his brain a bit fuzzy. "Business?" Serge echoed August dumbly, dithering as he set his half empty wineglass down. "No, no business, herr August, I..."

"You'd be wise to keep away from him," August murmured, his expression unchanging, that cold smile making Serge lapse into nervous silence. Serge must have looked quite spooked after that, for August's expression finally softened, and he leaned back, allowing a more casual air to drift between them. "He's ill, right now."

Serge blinked, a soft 'ah' escaping him before he could stop it. That... certainly was less ominous than he'd thought. Serge relaxed a bit as well, then slowly reached for his wineglass, curiosity still prickling at the back of his mind as he took a sip of the sweet, white wine. Why had Gilbert gone into August's office...? Serge frowned at himself slightly. There was no need to be suspicious of something like that. Gilbert was a dancer, and August his instructor. It's only natural he might visit the man from time to time to talk. At least Serge figured that was the case.

"It... isn't contagious though," August continued, almost cautiously as he watched Serge's face very carefully. "But he was too under the weather to perform tonight, as you probably noticed." Serge blinked at the small note of pride in August's voice; Serge supposed Gilbert must be one of their main attractions, and for someone to notice that Gilbert alone was gone out of a whole crowd of handsome boys, well... that was saying something. Serge nodded slowly, lowering the glass from his lips.

"I was a little worried about him," Serge admitted, his words flowing a little more freely as the wine began to taste more and more sickly sweet. "He looks like a girl, or a child... how old is he?"

"His eighteenth birthday was in the summer," August murmured. "He's my youngest performer, though. I try to avoid employing children here." Serge made a sound of agreement, staring at the residue on the glass from where the wine had tilted back towards his mouth, not entirely listening to August anymore. He was lost in his own thoughts, silently cataloging this new information. Gilbert was eighteen, just a year and a half younger than Serge. He was the youngest performer, and right then, he was sick with some noncontagious illness. "As for his femininity, well... androgyny is what you might call popular nowadays. It's the air of mystery."

Serge was silent, and August barely cleared his throat, bringing Serge out of his thoughts. "Well, herr Battour, it was a pleasure talking with you. I hope the wine was to your liking?" August asked as he stood and extended a hand to Serge. Serge blinked, his dark eyes sliding to the bottom of the wineglass, which he noticed was empty. He'd drank that rather quickly...

"Yes, herr August—thank you, thank you for letting me take so much of your time," Serge said, standing and reaching to shake August's hand, but he missed, his fingertips brushing the man's wrist before his hand finally found its place. He was woozy, for sure. "And thank you for being patient with my questions. I hope Gilbert gets better soon..."

"Mm," was August's noncommittal response, and he let go of Serge's hand to move towards the door, Serge following behind like a duckling. "It's very late, true. You should be getting home."

"Yes... yes, home... you're right..."

The trip back to Miss Boehler's house was hazy in Serge's mind, even as he reached the front door and fumbled around for his key. He mumbled a curse under his breath as he dropped it in the thin layer of snow at his feet, and he bent down to pick it up, muttering something about how alcohol could only bring trouble. After what seemed like an unnecessary amount of figuring, Serge let himself inside and found his stomach was doing flips; the stairwell looked like far too daunting a task, right then.

Serge managed to slip out of his shoes and overcoat, and stumbled over to the couch in the living room, where cinders from that evening's fire still glowed in the hearth. A loose smile quirked up on his flushed face, and Serge sighed heavily, flopping onto the couch and immediately falling unconscious, one arm and one leg hanging over the side.


End file.
